


come on snake, let's rattle

by InsideMyBrain



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: 1950s Slang, Communication Failure, F/F, Fights, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Non-Graphic Violence, taekwondo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 13:31:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12508532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsideMyBrain/pseuds/InsideMyBrain
Summary: Beatrice and Esmé have a misunderstanding.





	come on snake, let's rattle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [while looking up 1950s slang i found the phrase](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/332488) by bassiter. 



> This fic was inspired by this tumblr post:
> 
> "while looking up 1950s slang, i found the phrase 'come on snake, let’s rattle,' which has 2 meanings: asking someone to dance, and challenging someone to a fight
> 
> and. hhhooooooooo boy does that fact have some Potential"
> 
> and partially by the amazing bea_bickerknife, who pioneered this pairing on her tumblr, @parsleysoda1984.

Beatrice didn't consider herself one to follow trends, or what was “in”, as a certain financial advisor of her acquaintance liked to put it. She prided herself on her ability to forge her own path and try new things, rather than blindly follow the pack. In acting as well as in life, she considered herself an experimentalist - always searching, reaching, trying to find the next great thing. Never one to shy away from a new type of performance art or fun new method of codebreaking, she firmly maintained that the best way to live was to do it on your own terms.

The aforementioned financial advisor of her acquaintance, however, seemed to have a different outlook on life. Esmé Squalor lived her life at the mercy of trends; all her choices were dictated by what was in and what was out. Beatrice could bet money that the dress Esmé wore tonight - a garnet-encrusted, floor-length cherry red gown so tight it appeared to adhere to her body - was the height of fashion, from the plunging neckline to the end of the train. She looked beautiful and striking, of course, but Beatrice thought it was rather unhealthy to be such a slave to the whims of fashion.

But she digressed. It wasn't unreasonable to dress stylishly tonight, at one of R's more lavish parties. Besides, Esmé's dress was not what she should be focusing on, not when Esmé was approaching her right now, her stride purposeful and gaze steely.

“Come on, snake,” Esmé called, her heels clicking threateningly on R's ballroom floor, “let's rattle!”

Another habit of Esmé's, evidently, was to use strange words and phrases which were considered “in”. Most of her associates had no idea what she was talking about at times like these, but Beatrice understood this phrase. She didn't know whether to consider herself lucky or unlucky, but nevertheless she stood to face Esmé as she stopped in front of her, grinning in a strange manner.

“All right,” said Beatrice coolly. “Let's.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, wishing she had something to tie it back with. “Shall we step outside?”

Esmé's face twisted in confusion. “Why would we step outside?”

So she wanted to make it a public affair. Perhaps she was planning to defeat Beatrice in front of all their associates and humiliate her. She had a slim chance of that, but Beatrice could respect her taking a risk. “All right,” Beatrice said again. She widened her stance and balled her hands into fists, taking up a taekwondo fighting stance. She figured it was the fighting style most appropriate for the situation; her punches weren't the strongest, and being kicked with a stiletto was bound to hurt. “Let's rattle.”

Esmé simply stared, her expression one of confusion, and oddly, hurt. Beatrice dimly noticed that they'd attracted the attention of numerous other guests at the party. Lemony seemed ready to jump between them at a moment's notice, while Olaf seemed highly entertained. She shifted her gaze back to Esmé, who appeared to realize what was going on.

Esmé drew herself up to her full height and sniffed haughtily. “Come on, then,” she seethed, any trace of benevolence gone. Beatrice did wonder why Esmé had hesitated, but dismissed that thought when Esmé adopted a boxing stance, her fists guarding her face and leaving her stomach completely exposed. Beatrice smiled.

Quick as a whip, Beatrice delivered a _yeop chagi_ to Esmé's side, knocking her off balance for a brief moment. Esmé stepped closer, in an attempt to punch her, but Beatrice kept her at bay with a strong _dwi chagi_. From Esmé's yelp of pain and the way her stomach collapsed inward, Beatrice knew the point of her heel had found Esmé's bellybutton. Esmé doubled over, clutching her stomach in pain. Her head was now exposed, and Beatrice took the opportunity to deliver a _mondolleyo chagi_ to her head. Unsteady in her ten inch heels, Esmé toppled to the floor. Beatrice decided to spare her the humiliation of being held down, but it was clear that the fight was over, and that Beatrice had won.

Esmé struggled to her feet and walked away. She did her best to look dignified, but it's rather hard to do that when you've just lost a fight. The guests at R's party went back to what they were doing, mildly intrigued but not incredibly invested. “What was all that about?” she murmured to herself.

“Dancing,” Olaf said from behind her, startling Beatrice.

“What?” She asked him suspiciously.

He laughed wheezily. “Esmé asked you to dance,” he said, “and you just fuckin’ decked her!” He laughed harder.

Beatrice frowned. “I thought that expression meant ‘let's fight.’”

“It does,” Olaf said, “but it also means ‘let's dance.’”

Beatrice sighed. “That's damn confusing.”

Olaf shrugged. “Welcome to Esmé's world.” He downed the rest of his drink, then wandered off in pursuit of a new one. Beatrice turned her gaze to the ballroom door, which Esmé was leaving out of.

Esmé had asked her to dance. The first question that came to Beatrice's mind was “why?”, but she found she already knew the answer. And with this answer in mind, she began to follow Esmé out of the ballroom. She intended to make this misunderstanding up to her.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I took taekwondo for 5 years and achieved a red belt, the penultimate belt, next to black. Might as well use that knowledge somewhere, right?


End file.
